


When You Come Back to Me

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: American (US) Actor RPF, Pedro Pascal - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, a gift for a tumblr pal, flimsy reason for amensia fic, honeymoon au, married
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24961324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: You & Pedro are on honeymoon when an accident renders your memory of him obsolete. How will you find your way back to each other?
Relationships: Pedro Pascal/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS SO MUCH TRASH and I apologise to anyone reading.

“....And I swear, it was  _ this _ big!”

You hold your sides, laughing until you’re breathless, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. “It was not.”

Pedro smirks as you sit together in the Gondola. “You weren’t there. Even Matt Damon was scared. No cat should be  _ that _ large.”

You lean into him, catching your breath as he recounts more tales from his months filming in China.

The gondolier paddles the gondola through the narrow canals of Venice, and the sounds of the city reach you from shops, cafes and the other boats on the water. You approach the famous Bridge of Sighs and you and Pedro both look up at the underside.

“Imagine this being your last view of the world,” you muse.

Pedro drops a kiss on your nose, looking at you now rather than the architecture. “I’d die a happy man.”

You chuckle at him, but your heart melts. He’s been your husband for three days, your lover for four years, and your friend for a decade. 

The gondolier pays no attention to your lovesick teasing, obviously well used to couples making cow-eyes at one another on his boat. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans, not the fancy gondolier costume you see on postcards, but it hardly matters.

You settle back into the hollow of Pedro’s shoulder as the waves lap against the hull of the gondola. In the distance, a dog barks, and violin music plays.

“It’s romantic here,” you muse, as another gondola with a young couple making out  _ intensely _ passes. “Is that why you chose it?”

Pedro shrugs. “I got a map out and Oscar blindfolded me and I stuck a pin in the map, and well, here we are.”

You elbow him, laughing.

“You’re lucky I chose,” he grouses. “Oscar suggested Antartica, because we’d have to fuck constantly to stay warm.”

“Now there’s an idea,” you laugh. “Are you hungry?”

You slide your hand into the pocket of your dress and pull out your phone, but Pedro stays your hand. “Don’t do it,  _ mijita. _ Last time I looked, my Instagram had almost a thousand unread notifications.”

You put your phone away. He’d posted a picture of you both in your hotel room shortly after arriving in Venice, your hands in front of your faces, showing your brand new wedding rings, and social media had gone insane. 

“I was going to look up a good lunch place.”

He chuckles. “We’re in Italy! Everywhere’s a good lunch place.  _ Especially _ if I’m with you.”

“Are you going to be this sappy the  _ entire _ time?” you tease.

He pokes his tongue out at you, and behind his aviators his eyes crinkle. You  _ adore _ the lines on his face; you always have, he’s so expressive and he has never tried to hide his feelings from you. Pedro wears his heart on his face and every day it makes you softer for him. “Well, kinda - we are on  _ honeymoon,” _ he drawls, rolling his eyes. “I can insult you if you prefer.”

The gondolier glances down at you, amused. 

“I can insult _ you _ if you prefer.”

Pedro winks at you. “Turns me on, baby.”

You splutter out a laugh as the gondolier turns, preparing to bring you back towards the dock, where colourful stalls sell street food snacks, trinket souvenirs and masquerade masks. You close your eyes and lean into your husband, and he wraps one arm around you, and he smells of his habitual vanilla and black pepper cologne. You rub your nose over his soft, patchy beard, tiny hints of grey starting to show, and you love the maturity his body is showing. He’s wearing a plain white henley, the first three buttons undone, and this morning you teased him about another slutty v-neck (it’s your _favourit_ e when he wears a slutty v-neck). You slide your hand up to the triangle of his chest it reveals and lay your palm on his skin, warmed from the Italian sunshine, and you _cannot believe_ he’s yours.

And then Pedro jerks upright, seeing something across the water - a speedboat, way too close for comfort. The gondolier panics and you hear a shout -

And then nothing.

  
  


*****

The beep of medical monitors ease you into wakefulness, and you blink your eyes open to the bright lights of a hospital room, curtains drawn. Someone shuffles in the chair next to you and you jerk in surprise as a face appears above you.

“ _ Mijita, _ thank God. Fuck… You’re okay.”

You stare at the man’s face. He’s handsome, tanned, he has a strong nose which doesn’t detract from the beauty of his dark, patchy beard and big, soulful brown eyes. His hair sticks out at all angles. It looks soft, touchable.

“Who are you?” you ask.

The man grins. “That’s real funny, babe.”

_ Babe? _

You shrink back into the pillow. His voice is deep, husky-edged, calming, familiar somehow. “I’m not trying to be funny.”

His gaze searches yours, and the smile drops from his handsome face. You see the moment the panic starts to enter those big brown eyes, the moment he realises you’re being truthful. He rushes for the door and yanks it open, shouting for a doctor, then comes back in, sinking into the visitor’s chair.

“What do you remember, baby?”

You frown, and touch your head. You can feel… something. A bandage?

“Headache,” you mutter.

The man reaches out to touch you, and you shift away. He’s a stranger.

Something passes over his face, like a chasm is yawning open inside him, but he just looks down, putting his head in his hands.

The door opens again and a doctor enters, clipboard in hand, big glasses perched on her small, neat nose.

“Is everything all right?” she asks in a strong Italian accent. 

The man stands up, shoving both hands through his hair. “She… she doesn’t remember anything. I mean, she doesn’t remember  _ me. _ ”

The doctor checks the machine that’s feeding into your arm, and addresses you by your name. “How are you feeling?”

You frown. “Head hurts, not too bad, otherwise.”

The doctor nods, the neat bun of her hair bobbing at her neck. “You were in an accident. A speedboat pilot lost control and hit the gondola you and your husband were riding in. You have quite the concussion.”

You jerk your neck to look at the man standing at the foot of your bed, his eyes tired, his attractive, tanned face lined with tiredness. The white henley he wears is unbuttoned low enough to almost be indecent, and it’s crinkled from the heat.

“My husband?”

“Nice to meet you,” the man says, weakly, in that dreamboat voice. “I’m Pedro.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You try and remember your husband.

At some point, you slept again, you’re not sure for how long. When you wake up, the man who says he’s your husband is sleeping in the visitor’s chair. It looks uncomfortable. His head rests on the top of the chair, eyes closed, handsome face slack in sleep, arms folded over his chest. A plain silver band encircles his left hand ring finger.

You examine your own left hand. The drip insert is covered by a big bandage, but a matching ring adorns your finger, plain silver, the band delicate around your digit. You rub it with your thumb.

_ Why can’t I remember? _

You let your gaze trail over his moustache and patchy facial hair. Do you like facial hair on men? You must do. His hair sticks up, like he’s been running his hands through it. A little grey is starting to show on the edges of his beard. How old is he? 

You know how old you are, you think. You know you have two sisters and you proofread for a living.

But this man, who says he is your husband, is a mystery to you.

As you look around, you spy a mobile phone on your bed. You reach for it, swipe to wake up the screen. It asks for a fingerprint, and you try yours, which works.

Your wallpaper looks phone-factory issued, so that’s no good. The weight of the device feels familiar in your hand.

You navigate to the gallery and go through the photos, finding many of the man in the visitors’ chair.

Intimate photos - not of his body, but the sort of pictures you only take of someone you love, someone you spend a lot of time with.

_ He’s telling the truth. _

You rub your forehead gingerly. Your mouth is so dry.

You must make some sound, because Pedro rubs his eyes and sits up, his gaze tracking to you immediately. “ _ Mijita, _ ” he murmurs, and your stomach drops at the kindness in his dreamboat voice.

“Hey,” you say uncertainly.

He nods at the phone in your hand. “Checking to see if I was trying to pull the wool over your eyes?”

“I guess so.”

Pedro scoots the chair a tiny bit closer, and this time you make an effort not to recoil. He looks at you hesitantly, so many questions in those soulful brown eyes. “I won’t try and touch you, not unless you say it’s okay.”

You scoff silently. He’s your  _ husband.  _ “Did we touch a lot….. Before?” you ask quietly, eating him up with your eyes, trying to force your memory to cooperate.

One side of Pedro’s mouth ticks up in a smile. “All the time.”

“Maybe if we… touch, I’ll remember?”

“Worth a shot, right?” he holds out his hand. You drop your phone on to the bed, examining his palm. Surely his hands have brought you so much comfort and pleasure, over the years. You gingerly put your palm on his, fold your fingers above his thumb.

It feels… nice, but there’s no lightning bolt moment.

Pedro looks up at you, a silent question sketched over his face.

You shake your head.

“Okay. Should I.. let go?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” You leave your hand in his for now, let yourself feel his pulse, the calluses on his tanned palms. “Um…. how long have we been married?”

A sad smile touches his lips. “Three days.”

_ Oh, God. _ “So, we’re….”

“On honeymoon,” he confirms.

Your stomach bottoms out, and for a second you think you might vomit all over the bed. You end up dry heaving. Pedro grabs a cardboard bucket thing from the foot of the bed and holds your hair back as your stomach chucks out nothing but air, and you sit back eventually, tears streaming from your eyes, sicker than you can ever remember feeling.

“Sorry,” you choke out.

“You have  _ nothing _ to be sorry for,” Pedro soothes, and absently kisses the top of your head. You jerk in surprise, and he jerks in response, hitting his head on the wall by your bed. “ _ Fuck, _ ow.” He winces. “Sorry. I’ve got a potty mouth.”

You nod as he sits back down.

“Do I like it? The cursing, I mean.”

Pedro rolls his shoulders thoughtfully as he considers this. “I guess? Gosh, I don’t know. You’ve never tried to censor me, anyway.” His mouth turns down; his head drops to his chest, and then he lets out a soft expletive. “It’s been hours; I smell like shit. I should go back to the hotel; shower and change.”

“Would you mind getting me some water first? Please?”

“Of course.” He crosses to the little table in your room, pours water into a plastic cup and hands it to you. You meet his gaze as your fingers brush, and you look into his dark brown eyes and  _ yearn _ to know him. 

“Thanks, um, Pedro. Do I call you that? Or something else?”

“Pedro,” he confirms in that deep voice.

“I like your voice,” you say, almost a whisper, after you drink. It’s your honeymoon; you feel you should throw him a bone. 

The way he looks at you, it’s like his gaze almost  _ caresses _ you in its gentleness, but there’s a fire there, and you can  _ almost _ imagine his eyes doing dark and hot. Almost. It’s so close you can taste it, but your brain won’t cooperate. 

“Yeah,” he chokes out. “You say that a lot. Or, you did.”

Your heart lurches at the misery on his face. You want to reassure him but your tongue feels thick in your mouth. “Why don’t you go shower,” you suggest. “Eat something. I’ll spend some time with my phone, look through the videos. Maybe it’ll help.”

Pedro takes a deep breath, and nods. “Okay,  _ mijita. _ Um. Do you mind if I call you that?”

“Not at all.” It might help, you reason, might jog something in your memory.

With utmost gentleness, Pedro nods down at you, then stretches, and you watch as a thick strip of his tanned stomach is exposed, along with the “happy trail” down into his jeans. At some point, you must have known his body intimately.

He sees where you eyes are, and a smile ghosts on his face. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find out more about the husband you wish you could remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pictures will not work because a) I am idiot or b) they won't load, pick whichever you prefer. Pics on the Tumblr post.

While Pedro’s away, the food trolley comes around, and you eat some mediocre pasta with ragu sauce. You like pasta, and ragu. You know this.

You thumb through the contacts on your phone, recognising most of them. Pedro is listed not under his name but as “Husband” with a smiley face emoticon. You stare at the little picture you’ve chosen to go with his contact info, trying to burn his strong, handsome features into your memory.

One of the kitchen assistants comes to clear your plate away. As you thank her, she says in a soft Italian accent, “It must be hard. Sharing him with the world.”

“Sorry, sharing who?”

“Your husband,” the woman says, frowning slightly. “I’d imagine it’s hard sometimes. He seems very dedicated to you, though,” she smiles. “You’re lucky to have each other.”

You must make some small noise of agreement because she leaves the room. You stare at the door for some time. Who _ is  _ your husband? You pick up your phone again, go through more of the photos. And sometimes your husband is wearing some  _ very  _ elaborate fancy dress in the photos. In fact, movie-grade fancy dress.

_ God, he’s an actor. A famous one. _

You feel like you might throw up again. You manage not to.

A half hour later, the door opens, and Pedro comes through it. He brings the scent of verbena with him, freshly showered, and his thick, soft hair curls damply at the collar of his short sleeved white button-up shirt. His jeans are low slung and he wears flip flops on his feet. His soulful brown eyes find yours. “Hey,  _ mijita. _ ”

“You’re an actor,” you say without inflection.

Pedro drags a hand over his face. “It’s how we met. You remembered?”

“No. Someone… one of the staff said it must be hard for me to share you. Is it?”

He looked away from you for a moment, then crossed to the visitors chair, eyeing it with distaste before dropping into it. “Sometimes.”

“But we still got married.”

He nods. “We decided that my job isn’t insurmountable. I’m away a lot, but we make it work. You come see me, and we video call.”

You shift in the hospital bed, running a hand over the bandage on your forehead, absently. It doesn’t hurt as much as when you woke. “Tell me about us?” You offered him your free hand, palm up, open. “Maybe we should…. Hold hands?”

He brightens, and your heart  _ aches _ at how happy he is to be thrown that small crumb. He slides his hand over yours, and you close your eyes, trying to feel the topography of his palm, his fingers, hoping it stirs something.

It doesn’t.

With his free hand, Pedro digs into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out his phone. “Let’s see. Why don’t we revisit some fun times we had. So…” he thumbs through the images, stops on one. 

“Oh, man. This was when your sister was practicing making flower crowns for her wedding. You both thought I’d look, and I quote,  _ hella cute _ in one.”

You grin. “Well, we weren’t wrong.”

Pedro frowns. “We drank a  _ lot  _ of tequila that night. Oh, boy, did we. You said you’d never drink again - you were lying, by the way.”

You can’t help inhaling the scent of him as he’s so close - clean soap and his verbena aftershave and that familiar, unique aroma that’s  _ just _ him. “Was I?”

“Oh yeah, honey, you were.” He grins wickedly and there’s something about the way his eyes go dark that makes a ripple of awareness slide through you, liquid and hot, like butter meeting a skillet.

“Um, another one?” you ask.

“How about this video? You took this in the hotel,” he chuckled, bringing up a video of Pedro and a friend dancing to some inaudible music, both of them grinning hugely. You drink in the video Pedro, full of life, so happy. His smile is contagious and you feel a smile spreading on your face. “You made fun of me for my dancing for literal  _ weeks _ afterwards. Like yours is any better.”

“I bet it’s good when I’m full of tequila?”

He snorts out a laugh. “You certainly think so, baby.”

The endearment rolls off his tongue, and for a moment all you want is to unhook the drip and crawl into his lap, hook your arms around his neck and lose yourself in his embrace, and maybe everything will be fine.

As if sensing the change in your mood, Pedro tosses his phone on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

Your mouth feels dry as questions turn in your brain. “Would you… come sit on the bed with me? Just…. Hug me?”

“You want me to?”

You meet his deep brown eyes and nod slowly. Maybe it’ll help, but if you’re honest, whether it will or not, you  _ want _ him. You want this man who wears your ring on his finger, who dances like abandon and who calls you  _ mijita _ in that husky-edged voice, who is patient and kind and who will be photographed with fabric flowers in his hair.

Pedro stands and eases his hip on the side of your bed, moving slowly, as if you’re going to shove him away at any given moment. Of course, you don’t. You lean forward so he can curl his arm around you, and you shuffle forward and lean into him as best you can.

And it’s…. Nice. It’s  _ really _ nice. 

“This is okay?” he asks, voice thick.

“This is okay.”

Pedro rests his cheek on the top of your head, and you can feel his chest rising and falling gently with each breath.

Nurses and doctors pass your room on their way around the wards. Now and again you hear an announcement or two in Italian, but mostly, except for a nurse coming to check your blood pressure and temperature, you’re left on your own for a couple of hours.

“Tell me,” you say abruptly, “the first time I said I loved you.”

You feel him smile against your hair. “Allow me to set the scene. The year is two thousand and sixteen. You and I have been friends for six years. I’m filming Narcos - a Netflix drama about the takedown of the Colmbian drug baron, Pablo Escobar. You fly out for a visit because that’s how we’ve rolled for the last few years. I pick you up at the airport. You rip the  _ piss _ out of me for my very sexy tinted aviators that my character wears.”

You smile as he tells the story, the fingers of his hand on your hip drumming idly. “Are they sexy?”

“ _ I _ think they are,” he grumbles.

“Anyway, continue…?”

“It’s hot as hell where we’re filming. We go back to where I’m staying, you take a shower, and when you come out of the bathroom wrapped in a fucking  _ enormous _ towel, I’m making coffee, and I say: I’m glad you’re here. Makes me feel at home.””

He pauses, and you glance up to see a little smug smile playing on his face, like he’s about to drop a plot twist. “And then  _ you _ say, “home is wherever we are together, right?””

You laugh. “I really said that?”

“God’s honest truth. And I looked at you, and my stomach was  _ insane, _ like a massive, broken washing machine. So I stupidly say, “you want some coffee?”” and you march over, still dripping water all the flat the studio have rented me, and you say, “No I do  _ not _ want coffee, I didn’t fly all the way here for your shitty dark roast. I flew here to tell you I love you.””

You opened your mouth and closed it again. “You remember all that?”

His eyes go soft as he looks down at you, smiling for a moment, lost in the memory. “A man never forgets the first time his best friend says she loves him,  _ querida. _ ” He frowned. “ _ Or _ the first time she tells him he makes shitty coffee.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a glimmer of hope on the horizon.

The ward is starting to shut down for the night. At some point, you dozed, and when you woke up, Pedro sat in the visitor’s chair with a hospital cafe sandwich in one hand, a huge book in the other. You sat up, sleepily. “That book must be a thousand pages.”

“Seven hundred,” he confirms cheerfully after swallowing a bite of the sandwich - it looks like bacon and something else. “A seven hundred page book about death.”

You chuckle at his dry humour.

Pedro sets the book aside, using what looks like a receipt as a placeholder. “How are you feeling?” He holds out his left hand and you take it in both of yours, getting used to the topography of his skin, the way your fingers lace together. You stroke a curious finger over the tattoo at the base of his thumb.

“Pretty.”

He smiles lopsidedly. “I’ve got a few. Tattoos, I mean.”

“Do I have any?”

“Nope. Although under the influence of tequila, I _have_ tried to coerce you into getting one of my face.” 

His delivery is totally deadpan but then his smile cracks out and you laugh.

It would be so easy to fall in love with him, wouldn’t it?

A nurse comes in to check your vitals and looks at Pedro curiously for a moment, then a moment longer, her brows creasing in thought.

“Game of Thrones?” she asks, her Italian accent musical.

“Yeah. Oberyn Martell.”

“Oh my goodness!” Her hand flies to her heart. “I wish you had lived.”

Your husband grinned. “Filming the death scene was fun, though.”

The nurse winces. “Rather you than me.”

She bustles off and once again you’re alone together, the beep of machines the only soundtrack. It’s darkening outside your window, dusk encroaching.

“Do you… have to go back to the hotel?”

Pedro’s fingers squeeze yours. “If you want me to.”

“I…” What _do_ you want? Fuck knows. Not you. “You can’t sleep in that chair.”

His soulful, dark eyes flick to the bed, and you wonder if he was hoping he could curl up there with you, even though it’s narrow.

“Maybe it’s better if I go and sleep at the hotel,” he says slowly, his voice hesitant. He’s waiting for you to disagree, and you wish you could.

“Pedro…”

His fingers tighten in yours for a second. “Yeah, honey?”

Oh, you could listen to endearments trip off his tongue for hours. “Tell me another story? About us?”

His face lights for a second. You love the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. With his right hand, he snags his phone, flips the screen open, navigates.

“Oh, man. _This_ weekend. So, I had to do some training for _The Equalizer 2,_ and the trainer has such a cute dog, gosh, he’s adorable. You took about a hundred photos, but this one’s my favourite and you framed it not long after.”

[](https://imgbb.com/)

He scrolls a bit further. “Along with this picture.”

[](https://imgbb.com/)

You lean over to get a closer look. “Do I love dogs, too?”

“Yeah, baby. You do. You snuck this dog so many treats. So many. the Trainer turned a blind eye because the dog was lapping it up. Tried to get into our car when we had to leave.”

This close, you can see hints of amber in his vintage-whiskey gaze. A gaze you wish you could lose yourself in.

A loudspeaker announcement from the hospital corridor makes you jerk away from him in surprise. Pedro shifts, the moment lost. “I should let you rest.”

You catch his hand as he moves to leave. “Wait.”

Again, the hope sparking in his eyes _destroys_ you. Your stomach sinks, but then you see the slump of his shoulders, the way he holds back, never assuming. This man is your _husband_ and you promised yourself to him in sickness and health, and you owe it to him and yourself to try.

“Maybe you’d… kiss me goodnight?”

His face brightens, eyes widening for a moment, and you revel in the joy on his tanned countenance. He’s _so_ handsome, that little crease in his bottom lip a kiss from a passing angel the day he was born. “Sure. If that’s what you want.”

His voice was soft; barely carried to you across the gap between your faces. Pedro shuffled his chair forward, the creak of the legs loud in the room, but you barely heard it over the frantic pounding of your heart.

You laughed quietly, a bit breathless. “I’m, um, going to kiss my husband for the first time.”

Pedro huffed out a nervous breath. “No pressure, huh.” He took your hand, slid it up into his hair. “You… usually like to touch my hair,” he added as you flexed your fingers in the unruly, tousled curls, making him sigh. “When you kiss me.”

And you inhale, scenting his cypress body wash and the unique aroma of his skin, and then his lips touch yours, soft and sweet and hesitant, and something in your body wakes up and _begs._ You open your lips to let him in, trace into his mouth with your tongue and he _groans,_ his arms coming around you tightly, and he’s shuddering in what must be relief as you kiss for moments that stretch, blissfully.

“ _Mijita,_ ” he whispers as you slowly break apart. “Fuck. I…”

“I think I must really like kissing you,” you say, unable to keep the smile from spreading over your face. You feel light and giddy.

“Not as much as I like kissing you.”

The nurse from earlier pokes her head around the door. “Sorry to interrupt; visiting hours are over.”

Pedro gives you another hug, his embrace warm and comforting, and you breathe him in, your nose in the hair that waves wildly around his face, and think, maybe there’s hope here.

“Good night,” he whispers. “See you in the morning?”

You nod. Looking over his shoulder you can see your wedding ring glint on your finger, and it makes your stomach flutter with nerves, but happy ones. “Please, come back to me.”

He swallows hard, kisses your cheek. “Always.”


End file.
